


The Stars Over Passchendaele

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Kitten Licks: The Side Stories from the Roaring Hot AU [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, M/M, Not Beta'd: We Die Like Men, SIDE STORY TO THE ROARING HOT SERIES LIKE SERIOUSLY Y'ALL READ THAT FIRST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23306752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: This is just a scene I had go through my mind while writing the ACTUAL STORY for Roaring Hot.I'm posting it because I like the way I wrote it.But you don't have to read it to read Roaring Hot.~~~Wait, Steve and Bucky reunited at Passchendaele?  The unmitigated disaster of Passchendaele, the battle that lasted from July-November?  THAT Passchendaele?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Kitten Licks: The Side Stories from the Roaring Hot AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605271
Comments: 13
Kudos: 58





	The Stars Over Passchendaele

**Author's Note:**

> Last chance.
> 
> This is a SIDE STORY for the ACTUAL STORY of Roaring Hot. If you haven't read Roaring Hot, this is going to be a very confusing experience for you. Good luck, you crazy bastard.
> 
> Not beta'd because, y'all, I make them beta so hard on the actual stuff, I'm not going to waste their talent here.
> 
> This one's not really darkfic? I don't think? How I wrote a side story IN AN ACTUAL WAR ZONE and didn't make it darkfic, I just... no idea. Sorry.

Even the goddamn grits taste like gunpowder and gangrene and the grime under his boots, thinks Bucky in disgust, shoveling another mouthful in and barely feeling the flinch as another mortar lands. It’s far enough away that there’s no spray of dirt and no screams to rend through his early morning contemplation. Musta been a miss. He’d kill for a smoke and a coffee, even if they’re soured with all the smells and flavors of war. He’s killed for less, after all. His last three kills weren’t even self-defense, just a kind of numb mindless need to pull the trigger.

Sasquatch is blubbering into his letter again, which, Christ, now _there’s_ someone Bucky would _cheerfully_ rub out, either him or his bad luck penny back home. Bucky takes another mouthful of the gruel the cooky insists is good Southern grits and grunts, because on second thought, he’d rather choke out the dame, who the hell lays off a beau in the middle of a goddamn battlefield? He chokes down another mouthful and sighs as John heaves himself up to go have another man-to-man, dad-to-kid chat with Sasquatch. It does seem to help but Christ, he wishes he could switch trenches, it’s so damn awkward sitting here pretending it ain’t happening. John smiles tightly at Bucky- at least he never expects Bucky to jump in- and shuffles back until he’s side by side with the tall Swede-looking kid from the Dakotas, of all the fucking places. Their boots are sunk in the mud, but not deep enough for it to ooze in, thank God, or Bucky’d have to shift and do something about it. Not letting his team get foot rot, if he can help it. Fella in his last unit died slow of it, not doing that again, if he can help it. Once was enough, _chrissake_.

“Minnie, again?” starts up John, and where the hell he finds the energy to sound so kind, Bucky has no clue. Bucky ran out of _kind_ a month ago, along with the smokes and the coffee and the bedrolls and tents sitting on green grass just a day’s march further behind the line. He hears back home they call this the Great War and maybe it is, back home, but here it’s just grime and gunpowder and gangrene until it’s time to die, near as he can tell.

The Others take shots at the flock of birds overheard. Last week, before the supply chain caught up, they’d all figured it for generosity, raining down dinner into the ditches, but this morning it just feels like bragging. Bucky has to pull his lips down from a snarl when Max glances over at him and rolls his eyes back to John and Sasquatch. _What_ , Bucky wants to growl at the man, because John’s got it. But he knows _what_. Bucky’s the Sarge, in this foul ass-end gutter of the world. And he’s seen enough shitty officers to know exactly what Max expects out of his Sarge. He sighs, and shifts, tuning in to the kid’s bitching.

Still, he waits until his bowl is empty before he grunts, “Buncha bull.” No point ruining his cruddy breakfast before he has to.

The kid’s red-rimmed eyes fly up to his and Bucky leans in, slowly, and repeats just as slowly, “Buncha _bull_ , she loved ya.”

The kid rocks back like he’s been slapped and John blows out a breath and Max twitches. Bucky ran out of _kind_ about a month back, but he can still shake his unit into fighting stance, so he keeps on. 

“She ain’t left you for a different fella, neither,” he growls. “No matter what she says. She was sweet on you, and maybe _you_ love _her_ , maybe that part’s real, but my sister Rebecca ain’t never wavered from her best guy, half her last letter was still tore up about him, and that’s love, kid. _That’s_ love. Gal loves you, you’ll feel it just looking up at the same stars she’s looking at, so don’t go crying ‘cause _you_ let _her_ down, getting drafted to come over here and get shot. Buncha bull to drop saltwater over _that_.”

John nods, seeing the wisdom in this scalpel attack, maybe.

“And the thing is,” Bucky sighs, because the kid is looking mulish and making Bucky feel old. He remembers the early days before this war was all he had only dimly, like he remembers stickball in back alleys and the cool chill of milk in a glass. Something far away and distant, like his mama’s arms wrapped around his chest, snugging him safe. “The thing is, you’re not coming home whoever-the-hell her sweetheart was, you’re Sasquatch from the Fighting 107th, and you’re going to need a woman who can handle all that you are now. This Minnie from South Forks or wherever, she don’t sound like the kind of woman who’s ever going to be big enough to be your partner, Squatch. We get home, I’ll show you plenty of dames better suited,” he offers in half-assed consolation.

There’s a pause and then John says staunchly, “Sarge’s right, kid. Woman you need for the man you are now ain’t gonna know the meaning of the word ‘retreat.’ Ain’t gonna _let_ you get flanked. Hold out for better. Toss that letter.”

“Toss ‘er,” agrees Max, and Bucky shrugs when the kid looks up at him, eyes steady. He knows he said nothing but the simple truth, but it’s no skin off his nose if the kid ain’t ready to hear it yet.

There’s a noise in the next trench and then Frenchy shouts, “Staff incoming!” as the bulk and might of Staff Sergeant Gregory Larson slides from one trench to the next. He lands nimbly beside Max with all the poise and calm he’s telegraphed every moment of every day Bucky’s seen him. Bucky feels his heart begin to beat faster as Staff surveys the scene and spits, swearing, “Christ, Minnetonka, I got a niece and my wife’s sister and either one of ‘em, I’ll let you have a shot at if you’ll get a grip. Shake yourself, kid, or the Other’s’ll do it for you. Sergeant, need you to know we got a Captain incoming, says he needs a sharpshooter.”

“Ah, hell,” swears Bucky. “That’s all this morning needed.”

“Agreed,” says Greg. “Can’t ask you to clean up, but can you work the buttons, look a little less like a tramp?”

“How long’ve I got?” gripes Bucky, straightening, fingers flying at his uniform, glaring at open-mouthed Max until he shakes Whiskey Jack awake and makes the man begin the process of getting them all officer-presentable.

“Incoming,” says Staff shortly.

“Wait, here, sir?” says John in disbelief, gesturing around the trench as he hastily tucks in his shirt.

“Here,” says Staff grimly.

“Holy shit,” whispers Sasquatch. Bucky agrees, but he’s a Sergeant, so he keeps his reaction tighter to his chest. He’s working on unflappability, like Staff, but right now he can just about give his men sullen. It seems to work just as well, in a pinch.

There’s motion in the next trench and Staff shuffles forward, glaring at all four of them equally. A big body comes sliding in under the wire then, huge, bigger than Squatch, all muscle and motion. Sharp blue eyes, a chiseled jaw, and Bucky almost groans aloud because fuck all, this ain’t a _Captain_ , it’s the guy from the damn _hygiene_ posters. Captain America or whoever. He shifts his weight impatiently as the man says, “Hello, men, anybody interested in a spot of getting our own back this morning?”

“Ain’t you-“ starts Whiskey Jack.

“Shuddup,” hisses Max, as Staff gives a short growl.

“I’m the sharpshooter,” says Bucky warily. “Whatcha need?”

“James Buchanan Barnes, as I live and breathe, is that you?” asks the man, the color draining from his face.

 _Who the hell is this fella?_ thinks Bucky, as he replies warily, “Not so much anymore, people mostly call me Bucky. Some call me Sarge.”

“You don’t recognize me,” says the Wash-Your-Dick, Wear-a-Rubber Captain, and then he shakes himself and says, “Of course you don’t. Stark’s treatment. Name’s Steve Rodgers, soldier, that jog anything loose in that marble sack between your ears?”

“Steve?!” mutters Bucky, squinting, and then he leans in a bit to look. Sure, it’s _Steve_ , all filled out, put on height and muscle, face finally looks like it’s propped on the right pair of shoulders. “Christ, _Steve_ ,” he repeats, and he knows there’s a smile on his face from the way the kid gasps. He puts a hand out for a shake, and it’s grabbed eagerly.

Steve pulls him in from the shake to a hug, and Bucky don’t care who’s watching, it’s _Steve_ , and he’d pictured, after the last angry letter, him telling the idiot not to try signing up again- he’d pictured it all wrong. Steve’s strong and hard in his arms, and all he can think for a second is, does the Army know what they’ve got? He leans back when Staff coughs, and says, “How are you just a Captain, Steve? Never met a man knew more tactics and strategy.”

Christ, Steve had spent so much time in that damn bed, gasping for air and reading every military account or battlefield strategy he could get his hands on to pass the time. The man has the Battle of Waterloo and Sherman’s March _memorized_. What’s HQ thinking, putting a brain like that in the trenches where it can get shot?

Steve grins back at him and says, “Not great at following orders and kissin’ ass, Jimmy.”

“Bucky,” corrects Bucky, a smile twitching his lips again. He drawls, “Can’t let the kid think he can take liberties. Can’t say I’m surprised you're still a pissant punk, Captain.”

They smile at each other again and maybe it lasts a little too long for long lost buddies reunited in a trench, but this is his unit and his men, and Staff’ll just file it away. Steve clears his throat and then drops his arms and says, “So, you up for an adventure, Sarge?”

Bucky feels a bloodthirsty grin slide across his face as he responds, “Following you into a dark alley fulla bullies and toughs? Yeah, that sounds about right. Let me grab my rifle.”

“Nah,” says Steve. “Got the latest Stark, came with the body, but I can’t put it to use like a real sharpshooter can.”

Bucky grins and says. “Sounds like it’s my lucky day.”

Steve grins back, and rolls his shoulders. Bucky is shocked to realize some things never change, as his adrenaline ramps up in response to that gesture. Steve’s looking for a fight, today, and, well, that’s fine and dandy. Bucky could do with a good fight.

~~~

Two days later, Bucky stares up at the canvas of the infirmary tent grinning, and transfers the grin to the face of Staff as he marches up to Bucky’s cot, shaking his head in disbelief. “You got yer walking papers, Sarge, and a new assignment, following that Captain of yours. We’ll miss you in the trenches, but Grouch says he never seen anything like the two of you before. I guess you and that trigger finger of yours were just wasting time here.”

“Damn near took out the full platoon,” croaks Benjamin, the scout Steve had pulled to play their rear-guard. He’ll be stuck in the tent for another week, at least, if Bucky knows his wounds. And if gangrene stays just a smell hovering in the tent and doesn’t gnaw its way inside the man.

Bucky ignores the omnipresent scent of death in favor of grinning over at Staff before saying, “Brass decide it’s better business to let us go and take out a couple more?”

Staff grins back, but it doesn’t quite light up his eyes. “Trenches’ll be here for you if you screw up too much, chasing glory. Always welcome, solid man like you.”

Bucky takes it for the recognition it is- recognition of his long months in the pits keeping other men sane, drinking stale water and checking muddy boots for signs of rot, the mundane things that keep the men in the trenches- in the trenches instead of laid out on stretchers. Staff’ll miss him, sure. And so will his squad. But Steve _needs_ him, and he’d rather follow the Captain through hell than sit here and rot, waiting for it to find him. He waits for the nurse to gather his boots and things and call a doctor over to shake a finger at him and make him promise not to come back anytime soon. He waits, and taps his fingers, impatient. The Captain needs him, and he’s tired of sitting around waiting and watching stars. 

**Author's Note:**

> So, these stories are just scenes that I can't fit into the regular series (OBVIOUSLY, YOU READ THIS ONE, IT REALLY DOESN'T FIT), but that bugged me until I actually wrote it out. This one might spawn more chapters, just because c'mon, it's Bucky and Captain America in WWI. That's fun!


End file.
